


Sleep Song

by HapSky



Series: At Home in the Mountains' World [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Hope, M/M, Mountains, Nature, Self-Discovery, Shapeshifting, stray cat Hunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-15 18:24:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11811690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HapSky/pseuds/HapSky
Summary: Keith travels the world to get lost, but finds himself in a stray cat's lost home and decides to stay...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A twin story to [To be by Your Side](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10483326/chapters/23129553)

He sits down, a groaning sigh leaves his shaking lungs. “My boy,” he laughs and scratches my head as I sit down next to him and curl my legs underneath my body, tail draped above my paws. “Such a beautiful evening, don’t you think?” he says and stretches his legs, tired muscles and hurting bones moving beneath old tanned skin.   
  
I start purring in response to his laughter and soft murmur. I like it when he relaxes. He works so hard every day, pushes his weakening body beyond its limits, he deserves to rest a bit once in a while. We watch the sun setting the mountains ablaze, watch shadows slowly growing long and slender and the sky turning into a deep orange—almost the colour of my fur. Light’s rays glaze over his kind eyes.   
  
He coughs. Groans again. Lies down on the wayside. He stops mumbling, and I stop purring. A feeling of dread settles in my stomach, in my heart, my throat. I jump up and pat his cheek. He opens his eyes and smiles.   
  
“Love you, my boy,” he laughs hoarsely. “Am one lucky geezer indeed,” he whispers and strokes my head with a trembling hand. I’m about to meow my concern, but then I hear footsteps approaching, and hide in a nearby bush—hide, like the coward I am.   
  
But he just smiles at the boy kneeling down, smiles when he gets asked if he’s okay, if there is something the boy could do to help. He smiles and says with a dying voice, “Take care of my love, will you…” And when the boy gulps down a gasp, he strokes his head just like he had stroked mine.   
  
“Okay,” the boy croaks out. His eyes close at the man tousling the boy’s soft black hair. They seem to shut in something. Tears? Why is he crying? I’m worried, but I stay hidden.   
  
He takes the old man in his arms, slowly, carefully. Tenderly. Faces the valley with him, holds him safe in his embrace. He sits there and breathes. Slowly, carefully. Gulps one more time. I can’t see his face, but I can hear his voice as he starts humming a shy melody.   
  
A voice so smooth and soft, high and clear, there is no roughness anywhere in it. The tunes fall easily from his lips. He has practiced. Must have, I think, no untrained voice could ever sound so effortlessly beautiful and enticing. If the breeze in the weeping willow’s leaves had a voice, it would sing like this boy. Mellow, light, with all of his very soul.   
  
I love his voice. Listening to him feels like a feather light blanket tentatively embracing my heart. It gets shredded by ice cold claws, as I realize—it is a lullaby he sings. He sings of sleep, of leaving, of guarding angles, of finding kindness and being kept safe. He sings him to sleep. The dread is back in my throat, chokes me. Fear freezes my heart and makes cold heat explode inside my chest. I rush out.   
  
The boy keeps singing, a sad smile crying in his eyes, but the boy keeps singing. In his arms, the old man—his eyes are empty, the whisper of a happy tiredness left behind. Shock churns my insides, agony pains my whole being. He is dead.   
  
But the boy keeps singing, with a voice so soft and steady, echoing in the mountain’s world. He doesn’t leave. He sings during the cold empty night, beneath a heavy blanket of velvet stars and endless darkness. He sings until tomorrow, sings his sleep song until the world awakens once again, and his voice mingles with the chipper of small birds and finally fades away into the morning’s clear air.   
  
He breathes in. Deeply. Then sighs and smiles. With the glitter of the night’s stars in his eyes now gone, the sad weakness has left his face as well. He beams with newfound energy, a strength so unyielding—like a mountain’s core.   
  
“Okay,” he nods. He carefully lays the old man down, gets up and stretches. Then he looks at me. “You! Stay here and watch over him, okay?” he says and grins. He can’t know I understand, can’t know I can very well comprehend words spoken by humans. I stay and watch over the dead old man just as I am told.   
  
I press myself onto the ground, the remaining cold in the earth remnants of hurting sadness. I don’t dare to look at him. I missed saying goodbye. I missed the very moment he left. I wasn’t there, when the light has left his eyes. I hate myself for it. This man has done so much for me, he has always been good to me, has cherished me. Has called me his beloved boy. I love him too. I never told him. I hate myself for not telling him—telling him I love you, telling him it’s okay. Telling him I’m sorry. Telling him thank you.   
  
Then the boy comes back, hoists the old man up. “Follow me!” he chirps, “Let’s lay him to rest properly.”   
  
I follow him. He leads us towards the old shack just a bit further down the path, leads us home. The place is almost like the old man and me had left it yesterday. Almost. The boy had rummaged through the many junk rooms of this place, through the tiny empty stable too.   
  
We reach the small meadow in the backyard, squeezed between hillside up and hillside down, the slim trail we’re walking on in the middle. He cautiously lays him onto the ground. A shovel rests on the side next to some planks. “Sorry,” the boy mutters as if he had noticed my stare. “Couldn’t find a coffin, guess we have to improvise a little.”   
  
I watch him. Watch him prepare the old man’s grave with diligent care, he spends close attention to every detail. Every nail he drives through the planks has to be in its right place. He coats the insides with the comfiest blankets he can find. It doesn’t matter that they will rot anyway in the end, he wants the old man to find his rest in a comfortable place that feels like home.   
  
He is strong—strong muscles had built this grave, and a strong soul is decorating it. He wanders around the place to pick flowers. I follow him. He chooses carefully, I watch him crouch in front of a small blue one, staring at it with an intense gaze. He gathers many different flowers, many different colours, and once he seems content with the small pile he has, he goes for another round, this time only collecting white daisies.   
  
He places all the flowers in a silent pattern and with focused concentration around the man in the coffin, one by one. Every blossom has its place. I sneak a peek inside. It looks like the old man lies in a sea of flowers, rests on a meadow of petals. It’s beautiful.   
  
I sense a quiet smirk, and a whispered chuckle lingering in the traces of his lips and ghosting over his cheeks. A mischievous glint hides in his closed eyes. I shudder at the faint feeling of a hand patting my head lovingly.   
  
By the time the boy let’s the man down into the earth, the day has gone by and dusk clothes the evening in a warm ember glow. It’s when the first stars humbly appear in the sky that the boy sits down in front of the grave. He inhales deeply. When the first magenta hue colours the sunset’s rays and a trace of violet mixes into the shades of blue, the boy solemnly straightens his back and raises his head.   
  
He must be tired, there are dark shadows tracing his face, but the brightness his mauve eyes shine with is not weakened by it in any way. He still holds himself with vibrant energy and unwavering devotion. His voice is as clear and soft as the night before. But none of the shy sadness that has resonated in his words yesterday is to be found.   
  
A powerful heart sings with the firm voice of sincere gratitude. It is not loud, but filles the world with its steady melody. Through the overwhelming song of this boy, the mountains bid their fond farewell. The boy sings a last goodbye.   



	2. Chapter 2

He is rebuilding the shack and the stable. He had made himself a makeshift bed, and he hadn’t minded sharing it. I have never seen someone sleep as deep and unimpressed of their surroundings like this boy. When he sleeps, he sleeps. But as soon as he woke up, he was unstoppable. He still is.   
  
It’s not a very organised and tidy place, my home, I must admit. He is throwing away so much clutter and unidentifiable old stuff, I’m honestly amazed it had all fit in here. He is thoroughly cleaning this place. He takes several trips down into the valley, to get rid of all the junk, and to buy food and clothes, a toothbrush. Slowly, the old man is moving out, and he is moving in.   
  
He orders stuff as well. A handful of workers turn the stable into a multi-bedroom. Light wood, soft brown colours. Many windows. Comfy beds with lots of pillows. He lets some other workers install a new kitchen. The balcony gets refurbished as well. I know about such places, where wanderers and travelers find a home away from their home. A place to find rest, and a place to find new energy. I keep him company, stay at his side, and watch over all the effort he puts into turning a once shabby shack into a modest chalet. I have never seen someone work with as much motivation and enthusiasm radiating off their presence. It shines warm and golden, like the mountains sun on a late summer's afternoon.   
  
He tries to cook, once the new kitchen is ready for use. I watch him for a while, but this time, I decide, I won’t just stand by. I wasn’t able to help much so far. I have been a cat for the most of my life, I don’t know much about the human world besides of what I have observed, I really don’t know all that much. But what I do know, and what I do know very well, is cooking. So I meow.   
  
“Yeah. I know,” he scowls at the dubious food in the frying pan. “It doesn’t look like it, but it’s going to be edible. We have survived until now, right?”   
  
We did survive. We ate canned food. He never attempted actually cooking something, but with a new kitchen, I can understand his urge to try it out and cook in it. I can’t recognise just what he is cooking though.   
  
I don’t think about it that much, when I hop down from where I sat perched on a shelf, and start shifting from cat to human. It feels weird—I haven’t changed for so long, my human body feels alien. It’s okay though, I know I’ll get used to it in a few minutes, I guess.   
  
“Let me,” I croak out, my voice a hoarse rumble. Words feel heavy on my tongue, I haven’t spoken a word during the last few years. It’s easier to just purr or meow or hiss or growl. But I will talk. This time, I will talk with my human.   
  
My human gapes dumbfounded at me. I flick my tail nervously, ears folded back. My cheeks start burning with embarrassment under his staring gaze, so I push him aside with a small touch, take the pan into my hand and start to save what can be saved.   
  
“You’re butt naked,” he gasps and laughs. I stare back at him just as shocked as he stares at me. That’s the moment I decide that it was the right thing to trust him. He is not questioning my shape shifting. He is just not so subtly trying to not ogle my naked figure. I smile, and look for something to put on.   
  
“Oh god,” he wheezes between his laughter, then slaps his hands across his face. “Okay, that’s it. I’m out,” he says and leaves me standing alone in the kitchen, struggling to tie the knot of the apron.   
  
He later explained me why I should not wear only an apron while cooking—it’s too dangerous. For me because I could hurt myself, and for him as well, but that I might never understand. He just blushed while laughing and tousled my hair. Humans are weird.   
  
He orders more stuff after that day. More food, more books, but also clothes for me, and a toothbrush. I’m moving in here too. There is still so much left to do—cleaning, repairing, rearranging things, and he teaches me how to help him. I learn more about cooking from his books, and after I convinced him to let me be in charge of the kitchen we agreed that canned food is forever banned from our menu.   
  
When we sit together and eat, he tends to grow silent—he shakes his head as if in disbelieving awe, or he just smiles and gets all teary-eyed, but he doesn’t talk much while eating. It’s because he’s enjoying the meal I cooked him, he once had said, and because he’s happy. Usually I enjoy this little moment of peace and quiet, for the rest of the day is filled with noisy bustling most of the time anyway. This evening it itches me to speak up, though. So I ask him, “Why do you do all this?”   
  
He looks at me—his blank face cracks into a quiet and solemn smile. “I promised,” he says. “And just how would I be able to take care of you when this place looks worse than a dumpster?”   
  
He goes back to eating, but the mood had changed. He is happy and content, I’m confused. I stare at him, until I remember—and I understand. Why the old man had stayed here, in the mountains, and why this boy stays as well. It’s my home.   
  
“How can you do all this?” I ask humbly.   
  
“‘Cause I have too much money that I don’t have a better use for,” he answers.   
  
I didn’t mean money, though that’s actually something I have been wondering about as well. I never thought about it, how rich he is. But that is because I’m not good with all the concepts humans have, with the concept of money as well. It doesn’t have meaning to me. However, what he did for the old man, for me—taking care of me and this place with such strong devotion—it means the world for me, even if I might never come around just how someone can be this devoted and strong hearted. I guess, he just is. Just as he is kind and honest. I like him. I don’t care where his money comes from, or if it’s there, as long as he is here.   
  
“My turn,” he speaks up after finishing dinner. “What’s your name? You know I’m Keith, but I want to call you by a name as well. ‘Hey you’ and ‘kitten’ are nice and all, but…”   
  
I laugh and shake my head. “Please do call me Hunk,” I answer with a chuckle.   
  
Keith dances. When all the rebuilding and hard working comes to an end, Keith dances in the dining hall of our chalet. All tables and chairs pushed aside, the wooden floor reflects the evening light of the sunset. Behind high windows, the mountains’ world lies dazed, sleepy from a long day. Dark green forests and orange blue skies.   
  
And in the middle of this dreamy place, Keith dances. Slow steps, cautious feet lightly stepping on the ground. Gracile body turning and twisting in gentle circles to a mute melody. Arms moving as if he were weightless. Free, I think. He feels free, and feels at home and feels at ease.   
I don’t know about his past, but it doesn’t matter. He can be here—and just be. He is beautiful like this. Living in a moment he worked hard for to achieve. I still don’t quite understand. Keith is here. He said he promised to take care of me. Looking at him now, I never felt as proud to belong to someone.   
  
“I love you,” I mumble. He halts in his dancing, looks back at me with eyes full of warm affection, their mauve colour glowing with the sunset’s orange energy. “I love you,” I scream with tears welling up, dampening my voice—I don’t care, for this time, I won’t keep silent! “I don’t want you to leave! Not without knowing…”   
  
Keith smiles. He silently comes closer, takes my hands in his, and even though there is no strength in his grip, he pulls me back, until we stand in the middle of the room bathed in a comfy glow. It’s warm—the sun shining through the huge windows is warm on my skin. I’m staring at him, entranced and still shedding tears. Suddenly he turns around, cuddles his back into my chest, puts my arms around his body. His hands never leave mine. We watch the night hush the day to sleep.   
  
“I won’t leave,” he says. It’s not loud, but it’s steady and firm. “I’ll stay,” he says—with such powerful simpleness, those could have been a mountain’s words.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading :D
> 
> Me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/HapSkyScribbles)  
> Me on [Tumblr](https://hapskyscribbles.tumblr.com/)  
>   
> Feel free to follow/unfollow ^^


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